


your hand in mine

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:49:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15125678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: One day when Sergio and Xabi have gone to the post office for a parcel, a man with an incomprehensible accent comes into the shop just before noon.[AU. Sergio and Fernando own a bakery. Xabi has ghosts in his past.]





	your hand in mine

**Author's Note:**

> originally written in 2012.

Every morning Fernando wakes Sergio before six so they can get to the market when the vendors open their stalls. They might have saved some time and energy arranging for the sellers to deliver directly to their door, but Fernando loves these few minutes before the day has properly begun.

It's quietly cold in autumn. Sergio's hand is warm.

Sergio takes the basket and Fernando ticks the items off Xabi's list one by one. Strawberries. Blueberries. Fresh buttermilk. Fernando used to shop on his own when they first started out. It wasn't long before they switched to the current system, agreeing that it was easier for everyone involved if their head baker just made a list of exactly what he wanted instead of grouching at them from the kitchen whenever Fernando got something wrong. Xabi is a bit of a control freak.

His tarts really are to die for though. So Fernando doesn't complain too much.

(Whenever he does Sergio just laughs at him, "You don't like someone bossing you around in the kitchen," teasing. Laughs again when Fernando tells him to get back to work. Sergio laughs as easily as Fernando frowns. Xabi says they complement each other.)

 

* * *

 

Business slows in the early afternoon. Sergio is playing a new mix in the shop today, indie rock and a rich Spanish guitar. Fernando finds himself tapping his foot as he takes inventory, pen tucked between his teeth and arms full of clipboards.

He's checking the coffee maker when the stack of receipts catch his eye. Reading them is always a chore; Sergio's writing sprawls and leaps. That in itself isn't too much of a problem—but the sloppy math _is_.

"Sergio!"

Sergio grins and sets his broom to lean against the wall, extending a hand as if to catch Fernando's wrist. A dancing beat hums through the shop.

"Feel like taking a break?"

Fernando waves the receipts in his face. "No, because you've been fudging the prices again! Just because you know people doesn't mean you can skimp off taxes or whatever it is you're trying to do. It doesn't even add up. Look."

Sergio picks up the broom again. "No thanks. You're the one who likes numbers."

"Sergio!"

"Fernando!" comes the rejoinder with borderline-obnoxious cheer. "Relax, will you? We're not going bankrupt or anything."

"That is not the point!"

"Excuse me!" Xabi pokes his head around the door leading to the kitchen. "Hello. Please keep your voices down. You're disturbing the souffle."

Sergio mimes a zipping motion over his lips and gives Xabi a thumbs up. Xabi rolls his eyes, goes back to his baking. Fernando makes a face.

" _You're disturbing my souffle,_ " he mouths in mimicry.

Sergio looks seconds away from laughing but he makes a shushing motion. Presses two fingers to Fernando's lips before following with a quick kiss, for good measure.

Fernando doesn't complain.

 

* * *

 

It's not a big town so they know most customers by name. Here everybody is a regular. Some more than others.

Iker comes by every week to pick up a small cake for Sunday dinner. Whenever Xabi tries a new bread recipe, Pipita swings by to taste test it for him. Alvaro buys a croissant every morning on his way to work. Sometimes on weekends he buys two, to take back to his flat, if Raul has stayed the night.

 

* * *

 

One day when Sergio and Xabi have gone to the post office for a parcel, a man with an incomprehensible accent comes into the shop just before noon. He buys a cup of coffee and sits in the corner, looking out the window.

Fernando wipes the counter. Keeps an eye on the stranger. He looks English; his brow furrows whether he laughs or smiles.

At half past the bell clinks welcome, but there's a pause where the door usually latches shut.

Xabi stands on the threshold, frozen.

The Englishman stares back at him. His eyes crinkle into a smile. "All right, Xabi?"

His voice is sweeter than Fernando expected. Sergio, behind Xabi, gives the pair of them a curious look. "Friend of yours?"

Xabi closes his eyes. Opens them again. When he speaks it's in English,

"What are you doing here, Steven?"

 

* * *

 

They all know the story of course, how Xabi's homestay in England had been with a baker's family. How that had decided his career. How he says it's the best thing to ever happen to him, but refuses to talk about it in any more detail than that.

For a while they all thought Xabi would go back after he finished university. No one really knows what changed his mind.

 

* * *

 

The tap has been on for at least ten minutes. Fernando pokes Sergio with a rolled-up newspaper as he walks by. Sergio starts, finishes rinsing the teacup and turns the water off.

His eyes are still on the road leading from their shop down to the market.

"What do you think they're talking about?"

Fernando shrugs. "Friends? Souffles? Catching up, probably. They haven't seen each other in like a year."

"Longer," Sergio says. He wipes his hands thoughtfully and tosses the rag back into the sink. Beyond the window Xabi and Steven are two specks in the distance. "We opened this shop three years ago."

"Xabi went back to England last Christmas."

"Not to see his friend."

Fernando frowns. "He told you that?"

"Alvaro told me. He knows the English guy, Steven. Met him that year he was studying abroad. Says they talked a lot, about Xabi mostly."

Fernando assesses the tip jar. Relieves it of half its change, leaves the rest for encouragement. "What, were they going out?"

"Alvaro?"

"Xabi."

"Depends who you ask."

"Have you asked Xabi?"

Sergio snorts. Fernando glances over his shoulder and sees him leaning against the sink, crooked smile and hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"I'm not _that_ stupid, you know."

Fernando turns back to the counter with a fond smile. "Just checking."

 

* * *

 

Xabi returns just before sundown, alone. They're about to lock up. Sergio shouts his greeting from the kitchen while Fernando nods, resumes counting the bills in the money box. Xabi grabs his jacket from the back.

"Sorry," he says. "Didn't mean to."

The kitchen door swings open to reveal a grinning Sergio. "Wasn't much to do today. Besides, Nando could practically run this shop on his own."

"Go fix your receipts," Fernando says in response. Sergio rolls his eyes but takes the offending documents from a pair of no-nonsense hands. Steals a kiss from the corner of Fernando's mouth.

Xabi zips up his jacket in silence.

Fernando watches the stiff line of his shoulders, his neck. "Your friend leave?"

"No. He's here for a few days."

"Meeting up with him later?"

"No," Xabi says immediately. "Maybe. I don't know." Tap tap tap, leather soles against a swept wooden floor. "Sorry. I'm. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night."

Fernando waves. The bell sings a soft farewell.

 

* * *

 

"He's going back to England," Fernando says later that night.

Beside him Sergio makes a sleepy sound. His eyes are closed but his breathing is steady, loud.

"Sergio."

"No he's not." Sergio cracks open one eye, rubs his thumb over Fernando's lower lip before tucking his hand around Fernando's waist. "Stop worrying."

"You came to Madrid when I asked," Fernando points out. Lets Sergio draw him closer, sheets rustling. "You should know. You saw the way he was today. Any more obvious and they'd be a billboard ad."

"For what? English souffles? I tried it, by the way. Not adding to the menu anytime soon."

Fernando sighs against Sergio's shoulder. Closes his eyes. After a long moment,

"Why'd you say yes, anyway? You could still be dancing."

"I do still dance," Sergio says. "Dance with me sometime and I'll show you."

"Don't be obtuse."

That gets him a chuckle; Fernando feels more than hears it, rumbling through Sergio's chest. Sergio presses a kiss to the top of Fernando's head.

"Flamenco gets lonely," he says, "after a lifetime."

Fernando blinks at the dark. Doesn't really know what to say to that, so just curls his fingers around Sergio's arm and tips his head back, inviting. Sergio doesn't need to be asked twice.

"Xabi's definitely going to England then," he says after.

Sergio sighs, "Don't count on it. Xabi isn't me."

"Thank God," says Fernando, and they share a quiet laugh.

 

* * *

 

Later when Sergio is asleep and the clock blinks red on the nightstand, just before midnight, Fernando will breathe out and thank God again with his last waking thought, soft hair tickling his nose, the hand curled over his hip fitted like a puzzle piece.


End file.
